


message to the bird: i know your wings will be fine

by phoenixenchanted



Series: i break in two over you. [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Angst, Death, Feels, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-26 04:23:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3836953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixenchanted/pseuds/phoenixenchanted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tonight, 12 Grimmauld Place rang with her music, haunting and merciless. The song was sad, muffled by years of decay and disuse, filtered by the desolation that permeated the closed air within the miserable safehouse.</p>
<p>So what happened, Hermione? Did you forget to cast your silencing charms or did you finally realize that no one gives a flying fuck anymore? He watched the boys exchange glances over Wizard’s Chess, reinforcing an unspoken pact to pretend like their friend isn’t up there, pouring her heart out to a damned piano. The Boy Who Lived and his trusted lackey endured the heartbreaking melody, while he--- well, he lived by heartbeats now.</p>
<p>One, two, <i>Malfoy, where are you?</i></p>
<p>“Here.” His voice was clear. Ironic, that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. After the Ending

Her song. It did not shatter the silence, no. It slithered ( _and he thought that was so perfect_ ), muffled by years of decay, filtered by the haunting desolation that permeated the closed air, until every inch of 12 Grimmauld Place shared in her grief.

Hermione Granger barely spoke these days. A sad smile here, a short response there… Gone were the fiery retorts and the propensity for stupid bouts of bravery.  The meetings that once valued her opinions now dreaded the days she would actually show up because her presence often meant bad news. They usually preceded the announcement of a breached safehouse or the capture of a comrade.

These were the events that called her out of hiatus. She would abandon the wounded and charge again into the frontlines, their woken avenger, the once-Phoenix who saw the fall of Voldemort, only to watch her world perish at the hands of the Dark Lord’s followers. The Trio would convene after each meeting. They no longer argued. Potter gave her the details and Weasley fell in beside her, ever the loyal friend. Arm in arm, side-by-side, the former lovers extracted vengeance from their enemies, green lights spewing from their wands with barely any thought now. _You have to mean it._

And then she would come back, victories in tow. Weasley never returned with her, but her arrival always meant he was alive too, drowning his sorrows somewhere beyond the stifling Black residence, where, sooner or later, Hermione would forget to cast her silencing charms and their shrinking world would be forced to partake in the misery that embodied the young heroine.

He didn’t know what made him do it. Maybe he had missed her, afterall. Fuck, was that even possible?

Five heartbeats, that was all it took. Five heartbeats that he should not be able to count, and he was at her door, in her room, by her side.

“Malfoy,” she whispered, lower lip quivering like that of a child. Her eyes were closed, and there were tears clearing the dirt from her face. Her fingers danced over the piano. They shook, too, from both grief and exhaustion, but she dared not stop lest the moment slipped from them again.

“Draco,” he corrected, and she—by Godric, she smiled. Not in a sad way, either. It was real. The first one he’d seen in Merlin knew how long. “What are you doing, Hermione?”

Another tear. He watched it catch on her lashes, dispersing into little droplets before overflowing down her face. “Playing,” her breath caught, hitched, and he laid his hand on her thigh, which was really a terrible idea because she seemed to shake harder with the contact. “I learned this the summer after Dumbledore, remember?”


	2. when i'm stumbling home as drunk as i am

Her stomach fluttered. That’s how it always starts. With the acute awareness lent by her most recent quest for justice, she felt his presence almost as soon as he had decided to come to her. The air just seemed a little more breathable, the world a little less terrifying. There was a hint of peace that made his presence known, but mostly it was the butterflies that gave him away. They still created havoc within her when he came around, even after all this time.

So, like the silly girl he always accused her of being, she said his name, whispered it as if it was some sweet secret she never wanted the world to know. “Malfoy,” she said. _Draco. Hello. Oh gods, hello, hello, pleaseplease, don't go._

What followed was a dream, she was sure of it. A wisp of a memory, nothing more, hovering behind closed eyes in that second-turned-decades before inevitable sleep. She asked him a question, and he clung to silence, as though he knew the lack of any answer was exactly what she needed. “Nott,” she confessed into the stillness. “He was half-mad, I swear it. His spells nearly took Ron’s arm off. I managed to—I mean, I d-d—that is, I—”

She stopped then, sobbing for Merlin knew what. She could not feel the hot tears tracking her cheeks, nor the ache that forever resided in the stubborn rock that had become of her heart, but his touch burnt right through her jeans and seared her skin. She should have been screaming, begging for a numbing spell, or at least a shot of Dreamless Sleep. Instead, she abandoned the keys and wrapped her arms around herself. _Hold on, Hermione. Hold tight._


	3. what if i was nothing?

It hurt.

She was a ghost to him, a thing his senses could not register even when he reached out to touch her thigh, cup her cheek, hold her close. He was so afraid he would slip right through her. What would become of them then? A grotesque, misshapen entity, half-real and half-nightmare, struggling to—Struggling to just _be._ What the hell was the point in all this?

Her heart had turned to stone, and his turned treacherous. It betrayed the promise of eternal peace. It pulled him straight out of the grave each time she opened her eyes. _Not finished_ , it said. _She’s still here._ And he would do his damn hardest to stay out of her sight. Perhaps if she did not see him, her healing could begin. And once she was healed, she would marry Weasley, and Draco Malfoy would simply disappear right into the peace he so longed for. It could happen, he still thought. She could have a life beyond this miserable existence they were both prisoners in. 

But then she’d play her song, and he’d fight its pull for an eternity, until, powerless and pathetic, he’d manifest in her room, aching to be her hero but always, always, falling willingly into the tacky, treacherous pool of her pain. He would share her lot forever, if that was what it took. Not because he wanted to and, fuck, not even because he had to. No, he just---well, he just had no other choice. Loving Hermione was an inevitability, much like the rising of the sun and the fall of the Dark Lord. Loving Hermione meant dying for her, and living for her, and staying right here, trapped in this old, rotting house full of people who hated him, until she released him from this unintended bond.

“Love,” he began, barely a whisper to rival her violent sobbing. “You mustn’t—”

“I know.” She finally opened her eyes, and he saw, not for the first time, the accusation and hatred burning within them. “Fuck you, Draco Malfoy.” Her anguish was so palpable, so real and corporeal, that he could not tear his own gaze away, not even to soothe the wound her furious words had carved mercilessly into his--oh, he did not even know anymore. 


End file.
